Her mouth thinned into a sad line, and she said reluctantly, “Luther doesn’t know this, but I’m sick.”
I thought she might be. Her skin had a yellowish, unhealthy tint as did her nails with the exception of the white lines spanning them in horizontal rows. But I wasn’t sure why that would conjure the guilt I’d been picking up on. “I’m sorry, but—”
She shook her head. “No, Luther doesn’t know for a reason. When our mother died…” She stopped to touch a tissue to her eyes before planting her gaze back on me. “He took it very hard, Charley. She was sick for a long time, and when she passed…”
After a moment, I placed a hand over hers, encouraging her to continue.
She turned it over and laced her fingers into mine gratefully, then leaned into me and whispered, “He tried to kill himself.”
To say I was shocked would be an understatement of the highest form. My jaw dropped before I could catch it, and Monica saw.
“I know. We were all surprised. He just took her death so hard.”
I glanced once again toward the bathroom. With the coast clear, I asked, “Is he getting help?”
“Yes. Well, he was. He’s doing so much better.”
“I’m so glad. May I ask what you have?”
“You can ask all you want,” she said, a sad smile sliding across her face. “The doctors don’t know. I’ve been diagnosed with everything from chronic fatigue syndrome to Hutchinson’s disease, and nothing ever pans out. I just keep getting sicker and nobody knows why.”
Luther was headed back toward us when I asked one more question, “Monica, why would your being sick make you feel guilty about Teresa’s disappearance?”
She pressed her mouth together as guilt washed over her again. “The insurance. There was a clinic in Sweden Teresa was looking into, lots of breakthroughs. I think she took out the insurance for me, so I could go to Sweden.” As Luther neared, she leaned into me and said quickly, “He can’t know that I’m sick.”
I gave her hand a quick squeeze before we broke apart. As Luther sat back down, my dad strolled in through the front door, and I had to hustle to put my sunglasses back on.
“Hey, Dad,” I said with a big smile. “These are my clients, Monica and Luther.”
“Nice to meet you.” His voice and posture were nice enough, but his innards were not the happy camper type. They were more like a disgruntled bear who tried to eat the happy camper only to find the happy camper was a champion sprinter. He bent down to kiss my cheek. “Have you given any thought to what we talked about earlier?”
“Do elephants glow in the dark?”
“You can take off your glasses,” he said, a look of disappointment lining his weathered face. “Your uncle Bob already told me.”
I gasped. “Uncle Bob ratted me out?”
“I’d like to talk to you later, if you have a minute.”
“I’m pretty booked today,” I said, sunglasses still on my smiling face, “but I can try to come down in a bit.”
“I’d appreciate that. I’ll leave you to your business.” He nodded to Luther and Monica, then strode away to his office.
After questioning the Deans a little while longer, I said good-bye and took the stairs up to the office two at a time, excited to share the latest with Cookie. Was this an insurance scam? Surely Dr. Yost found out about the policy his wife took out. Maybe he saw it as an opportunity. I needed his financial records. But for that I needed a subpoena. No, I needed Agent Carson.
I started across the balcony that looked down into the bar. My office was just past the elaborate iron elevator, but the little girl with the knife stood blocking the way. I stepped around her and inside my office.
“Oh, I’ll get you some coffee,” Cookie said really loudly. She rushed into my office where the coffeepot was and waved at me, her eyes wide.
I smiled and waved back.
She rolled her eyes, hurried to the coffeepot, and gestured toward her office with a nod. “Do either of you U.S. Marshals take cream?”
Oh. Close call. I backed out the way I came in and inched the door closed. Whew. The little slasher girl was gone. Our encounters were fleeting yet meaningful. I was certain of it.
Not really in the mood to talk to Dad either, I snuck past his office and out the back door. Uncle Bob called my cell phone as I booked it to Misery.
“You ratted me out,” I said, skipping the pleasantries.
“I did no such thing.” He seemed really offended, then said, “Well, okay, I probably did. To whom did I rat you out?”
“Dad. Duh.”
“What? The Reyes thing?”
“Did you know he wants me to quit?” I dug my keys out of my bag because Misery lacked the technology to sense my DNA and open the door when I approached.
“Quit what? Your gym membership?” He laughed out loud.
I slid the key into the lock. “That was so amazingly offensive.”
“What?” He sobered. “Don’t tell me you actually have a gym membership.”
“Of course I don’t have a gym membership. He wants me to quit work. My job. The investigations business.”
“Get outta here.”
“No, I’m telling you.” I threw my bag in the passenger’s side floorboard and climbed in one-handed. “He’s lost it. He really wants me to quit. So I’m thinking either professional wrestling or belly dancing.” Nor did Misery say things like, Hello, Charley. Shall I arm the missiles for you?
“I’ll talk to him. In the meantime, I got a flag on the doctor.”
“Like, an American flag?”
“In the database. Nothing ever came of it, but his name was mentioned in some kind of a forgery investigation. I can give you the detective’s name who was in charge. He retired last year. I know him. Plays a lot of golf now.”
“Cool. He probably deserves it. I’ve got two U.S. Marshals in my office,” I said as Misery purred to life. No voice recognition software or retinal scanning required.
“What do they want?”
“No idea. I already talked to a marshal last night, so I snuck out the back way.”
“In true Davidson style.”
“Hey, can you check on Dr. Yost’s financial situation? I’ve already got Cookie on it, but I need official stuff that I can’t get without a warrant.” I steered Misery onto Central. Steered her. Like with my two hands.